The hero you never wanted to be
by Talking to my muffin
Summary: Post-Reichenbach: Months after his fake suicide, Sherlock returns to Scotland Yard to ask Lestrade about getting him a new case, but actually it's only about seeing John again, who still has no idea that Sherlock survived. How will he react, when they meet again? Is there any way he can forgive Sherlock? And will Sherlock finally become the hero, he never wanted to be?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

**The Genius returns**

Inspector Lestrade surely got the shock of his life. After this absolutely weird and stressful day at Scotland Yard, amongst other things he came face to face with some OAPs throwing cobblestones in the city centre, he was totally sure, that nothing would surprise him anymore today. But he was wrong. 'Cause this portentous knocking at the door wasn't caused by Donovan, who had some more extra work that would take him the whole night to handle, but somebody else. Somebody, who definitely couldn't be here, mustn't be here. Because he was dead:

Sherlock Holmes

How he had managed to come into his office, without being seen by the other Sergeants on duty, was incomprehensible for Lestrade. Well, maybe they were all lying in the office hallway right now, passed out with shock.

„This – no – what?", he spluttered and besides fought the queasy feeling that arised inside him.

„Surprised?", Sherlock Holmes asked keeping a straight face.

Lestrade just gazed at him with his mouth open. _He actually wasn't looking very well_, Sherlock detected.

„You are dead!", Lestrade gasped out.

„Well, I do understand why you're assuming that, but my presence in an obviously entirely fine physical state disproves this allegation.", Sherlock replied.

This did his business. Lestrade sighed and then, slowly but unerring, tilted off his swivel chair, whereas he slumped with an unhealthy sound down on the floor.

* * *

The next thing Lestrade realized was a wet washrag that was smacked into his face. He snorted and gasped for air, while his memory slowly returned:

Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead. He was here. And he obviously wanted to talk to him.

Lestrade slowly lifted his head and saw the detective kneeling in front of him, passing him a bottle of whiskey. Whiskey! Yes, that was exactly what he needed right now!

After taking some proper gulps, which expelled the last wafts of mist from his brain, he finally found his voice again.

„How?", he only whispered.

„You want to know, how I survived that fall from the roof? That's a quite long and complicated story, which in all its details surely would overcharge your tattered mind at the moment. Well, I actually presume that would also be the case, if you were of sound mind.", Sherlock answered without any irony.

This was Sherlock Holmes, no doubt. This smart-assy boastfulness could belong to no one else.

„What do want here?", Lestrade went on asking.

„I want you to get me a new case.", said Sherlock Holmes directly. „I'm quite bored at the moment."

„How-how-what?", Lestrade regained control over his body and finally was able to stand by himself again.

„Let's make this plain, ok?", he continued, when he was on a par with the detective. „You come here, after being considered dead for months, scare me out of my wits, refuse any explanation for your sudden return and then you seriously want me to go on as usual and get you a new case?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to think about what Lestrade just said.

„Well, that was kind of what I thought about, yes.", he replied.

Lestrade was stunned. Still lightly staggering he went back to his desk, sank down to his chair and crossed his arms.

„No!"

„Just 'No'? Why? Don't you have a great deal too much to do at the moment anyway?", Sherlock asked astonished.

Lestrade shook his head in bewilderment. How could somebody be so emotionless?

He had to admit, that the death of Sherlock Holmes had hurt him. He hadn't really been a friend of him, but he had trusted him, even if him boasting off about his 'ingenious skills of detective work' sometimes nearly drove him mad. The suicide of Sherlock Holmes had been a surprise for everyone. Lestrade never would have thought, that he could let himself be deceived by somebody in that way. Sherlock Holmes had been a swindler and a traitor. At least that's what the public media said. Lestrade himself actually never really believed that.

After Sherlock's death he had to face a big problem: How was he supposed to go on with his police work, without having somebody who was able to solve any case if needed?

His rate of success with cases of murder did significantly drop ever since, even if Donovan always tried to convince him that work was much more harmonic and orderly without Sherlock Holmes. Well, that probably was right, and yet there was a big stack of files of unsolved cases growing bigger and bigger on the top of his desk.

Now, as Sherlock Holmes apparently wasn't dead at all, he felt a fury coming over him.

„Do you actually know, what you did, when you jumped off that roof?", he spat at him. „You made us all look ridiculous in front of the press! 'Scotland Yard mislead by deceiver for years' – No other banner headline in the papers for weeks! And every day I had to justify myself! Every day I had to tell them, that I had no idea. Do you know how that feels? When everybody suddenly thinks of you as a complete idiot? - Oh, don't you dare to say anything right now!" he added warningly, when he noticed that the detective wanted to interject something.

„You spoiled my reputation and the one of the whole CID of London. Not to mention what you did to John!"

Sherlock's expression suddenly changed from unconcerned to concerned.

„John? What about him?"

„He is alive, Sherlock. But don't ask, how he suffered during the past few months! They tracked him, you know. All those gossip magazines and they wanted to screw everything out of him. He was supposed to come clean, tell 'em how it's like living together with a traitor. He is suspends from work until further notice, goes to therapie again and in recent times he quite often is out in the evening with his sister and gets drunk."

Sherlock bit his lip. He wasn't able to respond to this. This wasn't what he wanted it to be like. Under no circumstances he had wanted to hurt John. Of course he was aware that this wasn't to be avoided, when he jumped to death in front of his eyes, but he didn't want to ruin John's life completely. He had thought, John would get over this. And even if emotions normally were alien to him, he felt a prick in his chest, when Lestrade told him what had happened to John.

„Where is he?", he finally asked.

„Well, he still lives at Baker Street", Lestrade answered. „But he's going to move out soon. He says, he wants to get rid of all the memories and there are too many of them in the flat."

Sherlock nodded. For a long time he had intended to visit John anyway and explain everything to him, but he didn't know how and the more time passed, the more difficult it became. So he came here to reconnect with his old life. And he had a plan.

Sherlock suddenly walked over to Lestrade and grabbed his arm.

„You gotta help me", he said with despair in his voice. „I need to see John again, but I don't know how and so I thought, maybe the best opportunity would be to just get us both involved in a new case. Could you make that possible?"

Lestrade had never seen Sherlock Holmes in despair. At least not for serious reasons. If, then the despair was mostly based on how incredibly slow other people were thinking. In this case he seemed to mean business. Lestrade didn't exactly know how to react, but somehow he felt sympathy for Sherlock.

After staring into space for a moment, he said sighing: „Ok, I'll see what I can do."

On Sherlocks face appeared the trace of a reliefed smile.

„Thanks. Call me, when you got something for me. Wait, I got a new number..." He looked for something to write on, eventually took the file on the

top of the 'Unsolved Cases' stack and scribbled something onto it with a biro.

Lestrade resigned protest.

After he'd finished his scribbling, Sherlock turned around and walked over to the door. He remained for a moment and then turned back to Lestrade again.

„So, don't forget to call John and get him on the scene, too. Oh, and in case you still wonder who ripped your telephone cable out of the wall last week: it was Donovan. She's the only one on that floor who wears high-heels. She got caught on the cable with them, when she tried to reach the drawer containing the salary-list."

Then he was out.

Lestrade remained stunned, as usually after meeting Sherlock Holmes. So there would be more work for him. And he would have to talk to Donovan.


	2. Chapter 2 - Several phone calls

Chapter 2

**Several phone calls**

The next morning.

John had just fallen asleep again for a short time, when he was awoke by his ringtone. It was 'Highway to Hell'. Not really the kind of music John habitually listened to, but he couldn't bare any music that wasn't loud and hard at the moment. Furthermore the song quite suited his situation.

„Hmm." he responded drowsy, without checking the display for who actually was the caller.

„Morning John! It's me, Greg. - Er, are you alright?"

„Hmhm." John muttered for affirmation.

„So,...er...look...so...you do have plenty of time at the moment, don't you?"

„Why?", he asked surprised.

„Well, there's a lot going on here and Anderson is busy and..." Lestrade hemmed and hawed „well, to cut a long story short: Could you help us out on a case with your medical knowledge?"

„Greg, I'm fine. You can stop involving me in pseudo-cases purposely, just to besides give me advice on how to cope with my grief. The one about going out by the way was the only one that worked."

Within the first time after Sherlock's death, Lestrade occasionally had called John and sent him to crime scenes, because he worried about him and wanted to see, how he coped with his situation. But in recent times John withdrew more and more and the contact almost broke.

„No, no, it's not a pseudo-case this time, I promise!", Lestrade tried to persuade John „there's really a shortage of staff at ours. Please! I don't want to work together with a forensic freshman, who has no conception of police work and accidentally destroys all my evidence while experimenting with the corpse."

Ok, that was understandable, John admitted. Apart from that, his life currently only consisted of therapy sessions, alcohol and his vainly nocturnal struggle against his nightmares.

Finally he gave in: „Fine. But this is the last time, ok?"

„Yes, understood. Good, we'll pick you up in about half an hour. You don't need to take anything with you, we'll provide all the equipment necessary.", Lestrade explained.

John confirmed to Lestrade that he had understood him. Then he said goodbye and hung up.

This would probably be his last contribution to the work of Scotland Yard. He had decided to begin an entirely new life and to forget everything that had happened. But he knew himself good enough to know that this attempt would, like all the others in recent times, fail this evening in some filthy London pub.

* * *

„Holmes", Sherlock responded just a split second after Lestrade had dialed his number.

„It's Lestrade. I got a case for you. It's about the murder of a well-known drug dealer. - Yeah, I know it's not very exciting." he added when he hear Sherlock sigh at the other end. „But I can't get you another one. The corpse has been discovered this morning by some strollers on the waterfront of the Thames just near the northern end of Battersea Bridge. We're sending a special commission. John will be there, too, I told him off for forensics. But how do you want to show up there without people hitting the panic button?"

„Plainly by not showing up there at all."

„What? You wanted to work on that case!", Lestrade shouted.

„Yes, I'm gonna do that. But I surely won't show up in front of your whole naughty team and start analysing the crime scene. I'm gonna take a backseat first. Don't worry: Nevertheless it won't be a problem for me to make my deductions."

Lestrade took a deep breath to quash his anger. Then he asked: „So what about John now? If your not gonna show up, it wouldn't have been necessary to call him at all!"

„I'm gonna take care of that myself. Will Donovan be part of your Supercrew?"

„No", Lestrade replied „we had a little...disagreement."

„Did she quit, because she discovered that she gets paid less than it's her due in her position? Did it came to her mind, that her disgusting character might be the reason for that?"

„No, and it's not because of her character. She simply doesn't work enough. Anyway, what's that to you?"

„So, see you later.", Sherlock Holmes bowed out.


	3. Chapter 3 - The stranger

**_Sorry, if this chapter is a little too much about crime stuff. I just wanted to make the crime scene look realistic. Next chapter will be more "emotional" again, I promise! ;)_**

Chapter 3

**The stranger at the crime scene**

When John arrived at the crime scene together with the „special commission", which looked like for lack of staff they'd just scratched even the last napping officers out of their desk chairs, the forensic people had already done most of their work. Everything important had been properly marked and packed into plastic bags. The body was still lying there loose, but it was already littered with indentations, too.

„And, what is it exactly that I should do now?", John asked.

Lestrade himself didn't seem to be sure about that.

„Well, won't do no harm, if you examine him, will it?"

John bent over the body and described his observations to Lestrade, while that one looked around like being in search of something.

„Male, middle-sized, probably about the age of 50, cause of death...", he lifted the head of the dead man to search for the bullet-hole, „...shot in the head from behind, presumably at close range... Hey!", he complained when recognizing that Lestrade didn't listen to him at all.

„What?...Sorry, didn't listen. Still a bit tired."

„I'm just telling you once! So, time of death: at least 5 hours ago, the blood already dried,..."

„Ok, fine, thanks.", Lestrade interrupted him „Listen, I'll be right back, ok?"

Then he turned away and run off.

Great, what the hell am I actually here for?, John asked himself. He gradually suspected that he wasn't really needed here and he'd been taken to this crime scene for another unknown reason.

He glanced around, trying to find out, where Lestrade had been starring to.

His eyes wandered around at the crime scene, up to Battersea Bridge, which was, as usual, filled by heavy traffic, until he finally discovered something at the other riverside, something that seemed familiar to him:

Behind the last pier there was somebody standing. Slender, tall and he was wearing a long black coat. Just like the one that...Sherlock?

No, this wasn't possible. Sherlock was dead. John blinked twice in disbelief and then looked across the river again. The coat, as well as his wearer, was gone.

Lestrade had crossed the bridge in a jiffy, whereby he delightedly realized that the fitness training, which was just recently obligatory for every police officer, did actually pay. Arrived at the other side he looked for the detective and finally found him, leant to the pier with his back. He seemed to be contemplative, but this was actually normality for Sherlock, apart from that moments, when he boasted off about the results of his contemplation.

„What is this all about? Seriously, you are quite visible from the other side.", said Lestrade huffing and puffing.

„Nobody's looking over here, 'cause they're all stuck to the floor with their noses. Withal the evidence they're looking for is hanging right over their heads: There's a package of white powder fixed on the inside of the left bottom brink of the bridge, probably it's cocaine."

„What?", Lestrade asked in disbelief. „You couldn't possibly have seen that from this distance!"

„You're right, I saw it from over there."

Lestrade looked at him in bewilderment. „How did you get there?"

Sherlock smiled furtively. „You really should do a better check on all those people running around there in plastic suits. Those things give you quite a lot anonymity, even if they are almost transparent."

Lestrade had to shook his head. It was hardly surprising, that everybody kept laughing at the police, when they blundered like this.

„In case you're interested", Sherlock continued „the perp was about 6 feet tall, left-handed, a real starter with shooting and he just recently gave up smoking."

„What about...smoking? Ok, I won't even ask how you deduced that.", Lestrade sighed. „I'll keep it in mind. Listen! I think John already realized that there isn't actually anything here for him to do, he probably suspects some kind of perfidious plan. What am I supposed to do?"

„Don't know. Let him do some useless research and sent him back then. I'll precede yet." Sherlock turned around and walked away.

„Hey! Sherlock! Wait, what are you gonna do? You can't just...!"

But he was already gone.

Left-handed? Gave up smoking? Lestrade shook his head. He was never going to understand this.

John was still standing next to the corpse of the dealer and stared over to the other side of the river open-mouthed. He had seen him, he was sure about that. But this wasn't possible. He was just imagining again. The reason therefore probably were his drinking habits at the moment. Every single thought about this whole story gave him headaches.

And even if he had seen somebody over there wearing a black coat: Sherlock for sure wasn't the only one in the city of London wearing such a thing. There were a lot of people possessing such coats these days.

John pondered whom else he know. Nobody occurred to him. It wasn't surprising, the thing was terribly old-fashioned.

He shut his eyes and forced himself to breathe calmly. Ok, he thought, there's nobody there. No Sherlock and nobody else either. Stop hallucinating! He is dead! He is dead!

The thought had dug his claws so deep into his memory that it hurted.

Nevertheless his eyes had seldomly betrayed him.

Gasping lightly Lestrade appeared again next to him.

„Everything alright?"

„Have you been...jogging or so?", John asked in surprise.

„What? No just a short...whew...sprint to the other side. I wanted to see whether the shooter could have possibly been standing over there."

„Er, as I already told you before, this guy has been shot at close range.", John stated.

„Oh, I suppose I didn't listen properly, however.", he passed John a pen and a clipboard. „Write down your results and after that one of that cars will take you back home. Thanks for helping out, John!"

There was some hanky-panky going on here, John was sure. He watched Lestrade running off to examine the bottom side of the bridge. First he was called to the scene of a crime for no reason and then there appeared, no, then he imagined to see Sherlock there. It was definitely time to get home. He needed some sleep. Or some strong drink. Harry wasn't here that evening, so he'd probably do the first thing. He hated to get drunk on his own.

Indeed Lestrade found a package of cocaine beneath the bridge. So all this had probably been about some kind of deal, which got completely out of control. It suddenly came to his mind that his job presumably wasn't the most dangerous one in the whole city of London.

Looking for further evidence, his eyes rested on the pier next to which the body had been discovered. Approximately at eye level, one spot was pasted over and over with a dozen of chewing gums. Lestrade stopped short: They weren't even completely dry. Somebody obviously had been waiting here, waiting a long time. But why would somebody chew a dozen chewing gums in a row? Slowly it began to dawn on him: Ah, giving up smoking → chewing gums → evidence → DNA of the perp.

Gee! Sherlock really could have told him that in a moment! Dammit, did he always have to be so mysterious?

However it looked like searching for the suspect had become considerably easier by now.

„Folks, get over here! Take that stuff! And compare the DNA to the samples from the drug-file."

He had to smile. Somehow he had missed this kind of working.


	4. Chapter 4 - Plans for resurrection

**_This chapter is rather short and it only takes place in Sherlocks mind, which is a world quite interesting to determine. ;) So there will be no dialogue at all. Hope you like it anyway. ;)_**

* * *

Chapter 4

**Plans for resurrection**

Resuming this whole business again had been Sherlocks idea only. He had spent the last few months in constant disguise. That didn't mean he was wearing a mask, he just hadn't been visible. He'd been not more than a shadow, somebody who watched quietly and unseen.

What he'd been watching was John. His actual plan had been to leave the town, leave all the people who knew him. To forget.

Actually this wasn't a hard task for him. He never forgot facts and formula, but he easily forgot sentimental issues, for they never really were issues to him.

But somehow he couldn't forget John, couldn't forget his face when he looked up to him standing on the top of that roof. The way he screamed „Sherlock!". It echoed through his head all the time. It was a scream that made his blood freeze in his veins. It gave him nightmares.

And this was absolutely disconcerting. Sherlock never had nightmares in his life. He usually slept like a dog. The only things that sometimes kept him awake were the fascinating mysteries and puzzles of a case. But he'd never paid attention to something as ordinary and stupid as dreams.

And now he'd fallen prey to their claws.

And to the claws of boredom. During the last months, the only puzzles his mind worked on were how to roam about the city without being recognized by anyone and how to get the things he needed for his everyday life.

And of course how to move on.

He'd moved to a small flat that only consisted of a tiny bedroom, a bathroom and a fitted kitchen that only contained a fridge and two hotplates.

Molly had organised it for him and it was acceptable for the moment, but he wouldn't be able to bear this narrowness in perpetuity.

Another reason he chose that place was that it was just two blocks of flats away from Baker Street. So sometimes he could walk over and look up to the illuminated windows of their former flat.

So many times he'd been on the verge of ringing the bell. Just pushing the button and waiting for John to open the door. And then explaining everything to him and hoping he forgives.

But with his finger hovering in front of the button he paused every time. And then walked back to his flat.

Day after day after day.

So the days trickled away as stringy as honey while nothing happened at all and the need to return to his old life became stronger.

Sherlock had learned that this wasn't done by just turning up at Baker Street saying 'Hello! I'm back.'ve never been dead as a fact. How about getting ourselves a new case?'

He didn't want to hurt John no more, this was of top priority of whatever he was planning to do. But he'd probably be hurt anyway, after all Sherlock had made him belief he was dead for months and left him alone in his grief.

On that account Sherlock felt guilty, really deeply guilty.

Damn, this sentimental business was rather hard to handle!

Maybe the reason therefore was that Sherlock had no experience in it at all. He'd never seen the point of comforting someone.

He was clever, all others were stupid, no exceptions, no connections, case closed!

He'd thought that he was happy sticking to this rule. Well, he'd actually never felt something like real happiness, but he'd been feeling fine, there'd been nothing he missed, nothing at all.

Once one allows feelings to take control, it was so hard to get rid of them. For Sherlock it was a quite unfamiliar situation and so he first decided to ignore them and look forward to beginning a new life somewhere else.

There surely would be work for him to do outside of London as well. There were murders and mischief everywhere and if not as a detective, he could also work as a forensic or a chemist. Somewhere far away, at some place that the gossip didn't reach. Well basically a place that didn't receive the main British newspapers.

When he realised that he couldn't leave London, for reasons of sentiment and worry about John, it made him feel angry and annoyed first and then somehow sad. There was no place he could go to without the memories haunting him and even his 'mind palace' wasn't safe from them.

So his only opportunity was to return and unravel all the lies that had been spread about his 'suicide'.

Scotland Yard was the place to start. It had surely been the hell of a shock for Lestrade, but, as Sherlock assumed, he'd finally helped him to get one step closer towards his final aim: The resurrection of Sherlock Holmes and the total restoring of his reputation.

The next step actually should have been meeting John again and apologizing to him for all the pain he had to go through. This part didn't work that well.

He'd been aware of the difficulties that would appear if he tried to confront John at a place so openly as a crime scene, but he'd hoped to have a moment with him in private, he hadn't expected Lestrade to get that much officers on a case so unimportant.

So Plan B: Become visible to John and hereby give him a clue, that you're not dead as a matter of fact, so the full reappearance later won't be such a great shock for him.

This part probably succeeded. John had definitely seen him, he could tell that from his face. And Lestrade said so, too.

So how to proceed now?

His first idea had been to follow John on his way back home and somehow show up to him, but his plan had been scrapped by John being taken home by some officers and there was no point in running after them.

So he decided to wait for him somewhere near 221b Baker Street and then follow him without attracting his attention until the right moment.

No excuses today! He had to do this. He simply had to.

* * *

**_This is the first chapter I wrote in English right from the start. Do you approve it? Thanks for any review! :)_**


	5. Chapter 5 - A misleading trip

Chapter 5

**A misleading trip**

When John got back to Baker Street it was just early in the afternoon and therefore actually far too early to go to sleep. His brain wouldn't let him sleep anyway. His thoughts still circled around the stranger at the crime scene.

There was really no possibility at all that this could have been Sherlock. Surely there was just somebody out there looking almost exactly like him and this delusion now gave John the creeps.

John trudged up to the flat, which was already filled with cardboard boxes full of books, tableware and other stuff that actually contained far too much memories to take them to his new flat. At the back wall of the living room, next to the yellow smiley, which was a result of one of Sherlocks attacks of boredom, Sherlocks violin was hanging down, lashed at the ceiling with a thin string and now swaying back and forth in the breeze that came in from the tilted window. John had placed it there on the day of the funeral and had never touched it ever since. He wasn't already sure what to do with it. On one hand he couldn't take it with him, because the memories would freak him out, on the other hand he wouldn't have the heart to sell it or throw it away. Maybe the best was to put it into another box and then store it somewhere in the attic, where it could easily be forgotten until it was found by somebody who had a use for it.

When John opened the fridge, he discovered it was almost empty. Since he didn't have to fear finding frozen body parts in it anymore, he used it even less and often forgot to fill it up or to throw away rotten food. He really needed to go out and buy some fresh stuff.

As there wasn't anything else to do anyway, he grabbed his purse and left the flat as fast as he had entered it a moment ago.

* * *

Sherlock saw him leave number 221b and fastly but thoughtfully left his hideway behind a parked car to follow him.

Still he had no real plan how to confront him. He couldn't just do this spontaneously, he needed a plan. Just jumping out of an alley in front of him didn't seem the right thing to do, it would attract far too much attention and anyway, it wasn't the way Sherlock Holmes would react. Far too ordinary.

He saw John stopping in front of a little shop just about two streets away, where he used to go, when he needed a few things to eat. While waiting outside, suddenly something great came to Sherlocks mind. This was perfect! Maybe a bit extravagant, but returning from the dead was certainly the most extravagant thing to do anyway, right?

Now he just had to be fast. This would tie up beginning and ending in one.

* * *

John had just left the shop again, when suddenly his mobile phone beeped to inform him that he had a new text message. He first thought it might be Harry, who after all had time this evening for another drinking tour, but the number was unknown to him. He opened the message.

_ Get into the cab._

There was no name, but John was sure it was Mycroft. No one else would give him such an instruction per text message. He only wondered at the number, but maybe Mycroft got a new one without informing him. This would be a perfectly typical thing for him to do.

In the very moment John looked up from his phone, a cab stopped at the curbside right next to him. There was no one inside, except the driver of course. Not even Anthea (or whatever was her name).

John sighed in slight anger, but he knew there was no way to escape Mycrofts orders, so he got into the car without a word of protest. He didn't even ask himself anymore, what Mycroft could possibly want from him. After all he still hold him partially responsible for Sherlocks suicide.

The cab seemed to cruise along a route through London so aimless that John asked himself whether it was the drivers intention to disorientate him, but when he asked the answer was: „I'm told not to tell you anything."

A quarter of an hour later, the cab stopped at the corner of a street that somehow seemed familiar to John, even if he couldn't tell at what occasion he had been here the last time. When John wanted to pay the driver, he answered that he'd already been paid. This also was a reason to believe that Mycroft was at the bottom of this whole ridiculous trip.

After the cab had driven away, John waited for further instructions, which arrived just a few seconds later in the form of another text message.

_ Turn around and walk along the street until I tell you to stop._

Really, what was this stupid game about? What was he intending?

_ Mycroft, what's this shit about?_ John answered getting angry.

_ Just do as I tell you._

John turned around and reluctantly walked along the street, still not knowing exactly where he was or why he had been brought here.

After walking about a hundred metres, his mobile beeped again.

_ Stop!_

Immediately John stood still and looked around. Then suddenly it came to him.

He knew where he was. This was awful, a nightmare. He'd swore to himself to never come back here again. Never in his whole life stand in front of this huge white building again, even if this was what he did almost every night in his dreams.

Then he received another message:

_ Look up!_

* * *

_**Sorry about this cliffhanger at the end, but you all probably already know what Sherlocks plan is all about. ;)  
**_

_**Don't worry, I'm already working on the next chapter and I hope I can publish it soon.**_


	6. Chapter 6 - The end and the beginning

**Whew, this one is rather long. Took me almost 2 hours to write it. But I hope you like it and that I didn't make it too sad. ;)**

* * *

Chapter 6

**The end and the beginning**

And there it was. The same picture, the same scene. Nothing he'd seen more often in the past months, in his dreams, his memories. Like watching a movie, when the disc was damaged and it jumped back to the same scene again and again.

Sherlock on the roof. One step. Falling. Dead.

Again and again.

Only this time, it seemed so terribly real.

John staggered backwards, but he managed to keep standing on his feet. It hit him like a sock in the eye: This wasn't a dream. He was totally awaken. This was real. Sherlock was really standing up there.

Of course it was crazy, of course it actually wasn't possible, but after all that had happened to him on that day, this suddenly seemed to be the answer to his questions. It really had been Sherlock, this man he'd seen at the other side of the river Thames. No imagination. And it almost becalmed himself to see that he had regained the control over his perception again so far as not to imagine seeing any dead people anymore.

Sherlock still stood up there, all calm, and looked down onto him. He didn't move, it almost looked as if he was a puppet or a cardboard cut-out. Like an insane joke of someone, who wanted to give John more nightmares. There really were enough madmen out there. But then suddenly Sherlock raised his arm and reached it out for him. Like it had been back then.

Suddenly a dreadful fear came over John that Sherlock might jump again. There was, of course, no reason therefore, but he got seized with panic and his legs obeyed to it.

He rushed towards the entry of St. Barts Hospital.

Nothing could stop him. Not the pain in his legs, which had become worse during the past weeks, not the fact that he bumped into two nurses and one doctor on his way upstairs and least of all their swearing.

John ran through the hospital like a madman on the lam and he didn't care about what possible consequences this could have, when he came back down later. If he came back down later. Because he was quite sure that, if he didn't find Sherlock up there and everything had been imagination after all, he'd look for an alternative route downwards. A more definite one.

Totally pumped out he reached the door that led to the roof. It was ajar. When he reeled outside, he had to hang on to the door frame not to fall over.

He looked around hastily and began to panic again, but then he saw him.

Sherlock still stood where he'd been standing a moment ago. He'd just turned around and now looked at John, even a bit amused.

„You didn't have to run. I'm really not in a hurry."

John starred at him. He wanted to say something, shout at him, cry, anything. But he was barely able to breath.

„Holy crap!", he gasped and slumped down right away.

* * *

Fortunately he didn't faint completely. He gritted his teeth and waited, until the thin black fog that clouded his sight had vanished.

Meanwhile Sherlock had come over to him and crouched in front of him.

For a while he just looked at John, while this one tried to find a steady rhythm of breathing again.

Then John reached out to grab Sherlocks shoulder. He just had to feel he was real. That he actually was here. And it felt real, no ghost. And this was painful.

„John, I'm sorry."

There was real regret in Sherlocks voice, real sadness. But still the first and only thing that John felt by himself was real fury. And there was nothing he could do to stop himself from saying the first words that came to his mind:

„You asshole! You damned, fucking liar! How could you?"

He didn't shout, it was more of a dry whisper. And John felt his eyes fill with tears.

„Let me explain", Sherlock began, but John had found his voice again:

„I suffered, you idiot! I was shattered! I was almost about to...I almost wanted to..." the rest of the sentence got lost in John's sobbing. He couldn't stop it, the tears ran down his cheeks. He covered his face with his hands.

Sherlock was still sitting there, helpless and waiting. He took a tissue out of the pocket of his coat and passed it John, but he pushed his hand away.

Finally he stood up and walked around on the roof, while John still sat at the door like the picture of misery. When Sherlock got close to the edge of the roof, he heard him screaming behind him:

„Don't you go one step further!"

Sherlock stood still. In this moment it became clear to him that John really feared he could jump again. That he really thought he would do this to him again.

He turned around and felt so infinitely guilty. He had the feeling that whatever he did, he could never ever make up for what he had done. That he'd let John alone for such a long time without giving him the faintest clue about his surviving.

There was no apology. No reconstruction of the progress of events. No Sherlock-Holmes-explains-his-ingenious-plan. Pain was the only thing he felt.

Slowly he walked over to John, who'd finally stopped sobbing and who looked at him now, hurt and disappointed.

„John, don't you worry, I'm not gonna jump today." He reached out his hand towards him „come on, stand up."

John hesitated, but slowly his anger vanished. He could see how much Sherlock felt sorry about all of this and even if he could not understand it, John finally took Sherlocks hand and allowed him to put him back onto his feet. His legs still felt a bit weak.

„How?" he whispered.

„I'd planned it to jump, I had..."

He stopped his explanations. He didn't care whether John knew about how ingeniously the plan was he'd formed to mislead Moriarty and how thoroughly he'd faked his own death or not. Boasting-off about his skills suddenly didn't matter to him anymore. He just wanted John to forgive him.

„I...I had to jump. Moriarty had threatened to kill you."

John gazed at him in bewilderment. „What?

„You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He had already instructed his snipers to shoot you, if I didn't jump. There was no way to stop 'em after Moriarty had shot himself."

„The papers said, the police had found out that you shot him."

_John, since when do you believe what the papers say? And the police, those are all idiots anyway._ This was what Sherlock normaly used to say in that situation, but he forced himself not to.

„I know. Moriarty'd planned it all. It should have ruined me. Drag my reputation through the mud and finally I should have died. Well, I think he succeeded in the first thing."

John still starred at him, but he said nothing. So Sherlock went on:

„And I couldn't tell you on the phone what I intended to do, because the whole time we were observed by those snipers. I wanted them to believe...I wanted you to believe I was really dead. I wanted you to think I was a traitor and a coward and therefore had killed myself. This was the only way I could be sure that Moriarty's accomplices didn't hurt you. And I couldn't just return shortly after that, because I feared they would immediately return and fulfill their orders. So I lured them abroad with the help of my brother and..."

„What? Mycroft knew about all this?", John ejaculated.

„Yes, I made him promise that he'd never tell you anything until the danger was over. As a matter of fact we succeeded in catching them three. Well, actually two of them. The third one is still at large and that's why I have to be very careful, but I'll take care of him as soon as I can. But, you know, that's why I need you. And, no, that's not the only reason I need you, I..." he stammered as if he didn't know what he wanted to say „I need you by my side, because...because...I had always thought I was best on my own, but then there was you and... I've never had friends and I never felt the need to have any, but you are a real friend, John. And you are the best and the only one I ever had and I ever want to have and I'm really, really sorry about what I've done to you.

And if you can't forgive me, that's ok. And if you want to punch me in the face and shout at me, that's ok, too. And if you tell me to go, then I'll go. But I hope...I hope you know that you really matter to me very much and I promise that I'll never let you down again and that I'll never lie to you again. Never ever, John, honestly."

When Sherlock had finished his speech, John noticed he had tears in his eyes, too. And John didn't get it. He had in fact never doubted that most of what the papers said was wrong and that Sherlock wasn't a traitor. But if what he'd just said was the truth, then there wasn't any reason to be angry at him.

And as he looked at his friend standing there, waiting for John to punch him, he suddenly only felt mercy.

He couldn't help it. He went over to Sherlock and threw his arms around him and hugged him as tight as he could. At first Sherlock seemed to be surprised, like he'd never reckon this to happen, but finally he returned the hug.

For a while they just stood there in silence. It was a feeling as if no time passed, as if no time had passed. Like the end of a terribly trashy, sad fairy tale. Maybe it kinda was such a thing.

Finally Sherlock released John.

„Let's go home, ok? It's a bit windy up here."

John pulled off a little smile and nodded in agreement. The sofa in front of the fire at Baker Street seemed to be a better place for further discussions.

And this time they both took the stairs on their way down.

* * *

**Well, what do you think about this reunion? I look forward to your comments. :) **

**Don't worry, there are still one or two chapters to come. :)**


	7. Chapter 7 - Not a hero

_**This is absolutely the longest chapter I have written and also the end of this little story. :/ But after all I think it's the best chapter, so it doesn't matter. ;)**_

_**This time I also tried to explain how I think Sherlock faked his death. I don't know if my speculation is right, but in my opinion it's the most logical one.**_

_**Have fun and don't forget to review!**_

* * *

Chapter 7

**Not a hero**

When they got back to Baker Street the first thing Sherlock noticed were, of course, all the cardboard boxes standing around in the flat.

„You...you're moving out?", he asked.

„Yeah, actually I, you know... I wanted to get some distance from the whole story and everything in here reminded me of you.", John replied a bit conscience-stricken „Not that I wanted to forget you, I just needed to have...like a new beginning."

„Sure", Sherlock said. He wasn't angry about it. Lestrade had told him about John's plans and he himself had experienced the uncomfortable feeling of memories haunting him, so he could actually understand.

„But, you know, now that you returned, maybe I'll ask Mrs Hudson whether I could keep the flat. This is if you plan to stay." John added.

Sherlock looked at him in a very serious manner.

„Of course I plan to stay! I'd never planned to leave, in fact. And I ensure you, you've never been alone during the past months. I engaged some of Mycroft's top co-workers/spies to have an eye on you. And I myself always stayed nearby and watched you secretly."

John smiled. „You know, this sounds a bit confusing."

„It totally was.", Sherlock replied, relieved by John's smile. „I always had to be in disguise. It was kind of fun, because you, blind as a bat, didn't even detect me, when I once drove a cab you were in."

„Seriously? Damn, looks like I've been really fucked up the last months."

„You know, this inattention has to stop, if we want to go on working together.", Sherlock said with a wink.

„So you want me by your side again when you dig into crime scenes?"

„Of course that's what I want, John! I want you to be bewildered at first and then totally stunned by my amazing skills of deduction and I need you to write hymns of praise about my work on your blog and at the same time grumble about my untidiness and all my experiments blocking the rooms. And you know what I missed the most? You're annoyed face when I've done something really ill-timed or impolite. I'll make sure to see it as often as possible from now on."

John grinned in order to not give him the pleasure of seeing 'the annoyed face'.

Suddenly they both heard steps on the stairs outside of the flat and startled.

„You already told Mrs Hudson?" John asked anxiously.

„No I didn't. I only just returned from the dead about one hour ago." Sherlock whispered.

„So what do you want to...?"

„It's alright, I'll manage that. Go into the kitchen and make some tea. And maybe something stronger for Mrs Hudsons nerves."

John feared the worst and shook his head: „No, Sherlock. You'll give her a heart attack by appearing safe and sound right in front of her eyes. Let me talk to her first and you go and make some tea."

Sherlock actually wanted to speak to Mrs Hudson in person, but he perceived that John probably was right. He didn't want to scare Mrs Hudson to death by suddenly being alive and she was an old lady. Such a shock could be really dangerous for her.

As silent as possible he sneaked into the kitchen and closed the door up to a thin gap, so that he could hear what they were talking about.

* * *

Mrs Hudson entered the room carrying a big box in her hands.

„Ah, good to see you, John, listen, I just found this bunch of old test tubes and other stuff in the attic. Shall I throw them away, I mean... they smell awful."

„Yeah, sure. Er...Mrs Hudson? There's something I need to tell you, it's...the situation has changed a bit."

„What do you mean, dear?", she said while flitting around picking up some other lab-tools that were still lying around on the shelves. „Look at this mess! I think we'll need some more boxes for the trash."

„Er... I think I'm gonna stay after all.", John declared.

Mrs Hudson stopped and looked at him in surprise.

„Don't be silly, my dear, I know you love this place, but it's really time to let go."

„It's just..." Damn, this was really difficult! After all she would certainly get a huge shock, no matter how carefully he told her about the thing.

„Sherlock is back!", John ejaculated.

She stared at him as if she didn't trust her ears.

„What?"

„I mean it. He's back. He hasn't been dead in fact. I met him this morning."

„What? Oh no, dear.", she threw back her head and started to laugh „Not that again."

Then she looked at him in seriousness. „John, you are imagining again! This needs to stop, you... AAAHH!"

In this very moment Sherlock entered the living room with the teapot in his hands. The box of test tubes slipped out of Mrs Hudson hands and when it crashed onto the floor all the tubes flew out and distributed within the whole room.

The landlady herself released a sigh of amazement and then tilted backwards.

John took a dive and was there only just in time to keep her from hitting the ground. He placed her gently on the sofa and then turned around to Sherlock who was still holding the teapot in his hands.

„Bloody hell! I told you to stay away and let me take care of that! I knew this was gonna happen if you just strolled in like nothing happened. Now go get her a wet washrag and some strong drink!"

„What is it that you wanted to do, eh? Just telling her I was back? Great idea! She simply had to believe it if you told her!"

„Just shut up and get the stuff!", John shouted angrily.

* * *

Half an hour later the mood was calmer again. They had been able to awake Mrs Hudson and explain to her the least of what had happened. She still wasn't able to speak, but just kept crying on and on, so they both decided to bring her into her bedroom and let her sleep for some hours.

After that they returned to their living room, where John had lightened the fire and so they sat there, nobody saying a word.

After some time Sherlock broke the silence.

„Do you want to know how I did it?"

„Did what?"

„How I faked my death."

„Well, in case you can tell me without showing-off."

Sherlock smiled towards the fire.

„After all, it was ingenious!", he began.

„Ok, that's it, you're boasting already!"

„Sorry, I'll try again, ok? Molly helped me", Sherlock continued.

„Wait! Molly knew about it, too?", John interrupted in bewilderment. It seemed that everybody knew about Sherlock being alive except for him.

„I needed her help to prepare the corpse."

„What corpse?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. „My corpse, of course, silly!"

„Does that mean that this man, who lay there on the street, the man whose pulse I took, that wasn't you?"

„No, obviously not. That man was dead."

„So who was it then?"

„Don't know. One of the dead guys I found at . Molly helped me prepare it, so that it looked exactly like me.", Sherlock explained.

John still didn't understand. „But the face! He looked just like you!"

„That's what I just said, John, you need to listen more attentively! But you are right about the face. I think we did a marvellous job, it looked perfect! So natural but still..."

„Yeah right, can we just skip the part about you bragging about your fabulousness?"

Sherlock sighed. „Ok then. Do you remember that little girl screaming?"

John mulled over it. Then suddenly he remembered. There was that girl that had been abducted from the children's home and she had screamed when she had seen Sherlock.

„How do you think Moriarty did that, making her freak out like that when she saw me?", Sherlock asked.

„I don't know. Maybe he showed her a photo of you and told her you were dangerous."

„Yeah, probably the one with the hat. No, of course not! These children would definitely be more scared of the guy who abducted them than of some random man on a photo."

Suddenly John understood.

„You mean, he wore a mask or something like that, so that he looked like you."

„Exactly! Now when I later returned to the place where the kids had been held captive, I found it there. It was very easy then. I only had to find a dead guy who had approximately my stature and hairstyle. We dressed him up like me and poured a bit of blood over his face and onto the ground next to him when Molly placed him there just seconds after I had jumped."

John gazed at him, absolutely stunned. „This is fantastic!"

Sherlock smiled. „I just waited for you to say that."

„But how did you survive the fall, after all?"

„Remember the truck that had been parked in front of the building?"

„Yeah, I think so..."

„Do you remember him still being there after I had jumped?"

„No, he had been gone by then...You have been on it! You jumped onto the truck!"

„Correct John, I'm amazed about your improvements in the matter of deduction. In fact, that was the whole plan. Not too complex actually, but very effective. I was gone. You had seen me fall, you had seen the corpse. You simply had to believe I was dead. And so did the snipers. Everything had been arranged most carefully."

Sherlock looked at John in anticipation of applause. This one still stared at him open-mouthed. After some time they both look at the fire again.

„I'm a bit disappointed, in fact.", John began.

Sherlock looked at him in astonishment. „Why?"

„Because you told me you did all that to protect me from being killed by Moriarty's men, you sacrificed yourself for me, but actually you had planned everything. You've never been in real danger up there on the roof. So that's not really a sacrifice."

Sherlock started to laugh. „Really? That's a problem for you? Because I'm not a proper hero?"

„You told me you never wanted to be one."

„Yes, and I meant it. To die a hero is honourable, but staying alive a rogue is much more comfortable."

Now John had to laugh, too. He suddenly realised how incredibly glad he was to have Sherlock back. They both had met again just some hours ago, and still it felt like no time had passed at all. His decision stood firm: He wasn't going to move out. He'd stay here with Sherlock. It was going to be just like back then. He couldn't imagine a life better than this. Not at all.

Suddenly Sherlock's phone rang and broke the atmosphere of nostalgia.

Sherlock answered the phone. „Holmes...Yap...Oh, really? Is he wearing green shoes?...Ok, we're coming...Yes, John and me. I explained everything to him...Fine, we'll be there in a minute."

He hang up.

„Come on, John. There's been another murder in that drug dealer's case. I told Lestrade we'd both come and look at it."

A moment later the two of them sat in a cab, driving to the scene of crime.

The game was on again.

* * *

_**So how do you think Sherlock faked his death? Do you think my speculation is right? Let me know!**_


End file.
